


Red, Violet and Royal Blue

by orphan_account



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders is a Little Shit, Background Logic | Logan Sanders, Background Morality | Patton Sanders, Background Slash, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Being an Asshole, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Being an Idiot, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I cannot tag, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Smut, Supportive Morality | Patton Sanders, Virgil Sanders is a Huge Nerd, Will DEF become M, but don't worry it's just a couple of scenes., cake ig, eh it's slash but it's a qpr so What Is It, lmao am i wrong, that will eventually happen, uwu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2020-07-12 16:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19948999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: WHAT HAPPENS WHEN AMERICA'S FIRST SON FALLS IN LOVE WITH THE PRINCE OF WALES?When his mother became President of the United States, Virgil Claremont-Diaz was promptly cast as the American equivalent of a young royal. Handsome, endearingly anxious, genius- his image is pure millenial marketing gold for the White House. There's only one problem: Virgil has a grudge against an actual prince, Roman, across the pond. And when the tabloids get their hands on a photo involving a Virgil-Roman altercation, U.S./British relations take a turn for the worse.Heads of family and state and other handles devise a plan for damage control: stage a truce between the two rivals. What at first begins as a fake, Instagrammable friendship grows deeper, and more dangerous, than either Virgil or Roman could've imagined. Soon, Virgil finds himself hurtling into a secret romance with surprisingly unstuffy Roman that could derail the presidential campaign and upend two nations. It raises the question: can love save the world after all? Where do we find the courage, and the power, to be the people we are meant to be? And how can we learn to let our true colours shine through?





	1. In Which We Learn New Things, Such As Virgil Being A Huge Nerd.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! Welcome to the grand opening of Red, Violet and Royal Blue, based off of the novel Red, White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston. My update schedule will be a bit turbulent until I get a proper routine going, but until then sit back and watch the show!  
> -Nico (paladab)

On the White House roof, tucked into a corner of the Promenade, there's a bit of loose paneling right on the edge of the Solarium. If you tap it just right, you can peel it back enough to find a message etched underneath, with the tip of a key or maybe a stolen West Wing letter opener.

In the secret history of First Families-an insular gossip mill sworn to absolute discretion about most things on pain of death-there's no definite answer to who wrote it. The only thing people seem sure about is that only a presidential son or daughter would have been daring enough to deface the White House. Some swear it was Jack Ford, with his Hendrix records and split-level room attached to the roof for late night smoke breaks. Others say it was a young Luci Johnson, thick ribbon in her hair. But it doesn't matter. The writing says a private mantra for those resourceful enough to find it.

Virgil discovered it within his first week of living there. He's never told anyone how. It says:

RULE #1: DON'T GET CAUGHT.

The East and West Bedrooms on the second floor are generally reserved for the First Family. They were first designated as one giant state bedroom for visits from the Marquis De Lafayette in the Monroe Administration, but eventually they were split. Virgil has the East, across from the Treaty Room, and Patton uses the West, next to the elevator.

Growing up in Texas, their rooms were arranged in the same configuration, on either side of the hallway. Back then, you could tell Patton's ambition of the month by what covered the walls. At twelve, it was watercolor paintings. At fifteen, lunar calendars and charts of crystals. At sixteen, clippings from The Atlantic, a UT Austin pennant, Gloria Steinem, Zora Neale Hurston, and excerpts from the papers of Dolores Huerta.

His own room was forever the same, just steadily more stuffed with band posters and piles of AP coursework and eyeshadow pens. It's all gathering dust in the house they still keep back home. On a chain around his neck, always hidden from view, he's worn the key to that house since the day he left for DC.

Now, straight a across the hall, Patton's room is all white and soft pink and sky blue, photographed by _Vogue_ and somewhat inspired by the old '60s interior design periodicals he found in one of the White House sitting rooms. His own room was once Caroline Kennedy's nursery and, later, warranting some sage burning from Pat, Nancy Reagan's office. He's taken down all the paintings in exchange for ratty band posters and drawings, and painted over Sasha Obama's pink walls with a deep purple.

Typically, the children of the president, at least for the past few decades, haven't lived in the Residence beyond eighteen, but Virgil started at Georgetown the January his mom was sworn in, and logistically, it made sense not to split their security or costs to whatever one-bedroom apartment he'd be living in. Patton came that fall, fresh out of UT. He's never said it, but Virgil knows he moved in to keep an eye on him. Patton knows better than everyone how much he gets off being so close to the action, and he's bodily yanked him out of the West Wing on more than one occasion.

Behind his bedroom door, he can sit and put MCR on the record player in the corner, and nobody hears him humming along to "DESTROYA." He can wear the reading glasses he always insists he doesn't need. He can make as many anxiety-fueled meticulous study guides with color-coded sticky notes as he wants. He's not going to be the youngest elected congressman in modern history without earning it, but nobody needs to know how hard he's kicking underwater. 

"Hey," says a voice at the door, and he looks up from his laptop to see Patton edging into his room, two iPhones and a stack of magazines tucked under one arm, and a plate in his hand. He closes the door behind him with his foot.

"What'd you steal today?" Virgil asks, pushing the pile of papers on his bed out of Pat's way.

"Assorted donuts," Patton says as he climbs up. He's wearing a puffy skirt with pink flats, and Virgil can already see next week's fashion columns: a picture of his outfit today, a lead-in for some sponcon about flats being the perfect shoe for everyone.

He wonders what he's been up to all day. He mentioned a column for _WaPo_ , or was it a photoshoot for his blog? Or both? He can never keep up.

He's dumped his stack of magazines out on the dark bedspread and is already busying himself with them.

"Doing your part to keep the great American gossip industry alive?"

"That's what my journalism degree's for," Pat says.

"Anything good this week?" Virgil asks, reaching for a donut.

"Let's see," Pat says. " _In Touch_ says I'm... dating a French model?"

"Are you?"

"I wish." He flips a few pages. "Ooh, and they're saying you got your asshole bleached."

"Not true," Virgil says through a mouthful of chocolate sprinkles.

"Thought so," Patton says without looking up. After rifling through most of the magazine, he shuffles it to the bottom of the stack and moves on to _People_. He flips through it absently- _People_ only writes what their publicists tell them to write. Boring. "Not much on us this week... Oh, I'm a crossword puzzle clue."

Following their tabloid coverage is somewhat of an idle hobby of Pat's, one that in turn amuses and annoys their mother, and Virgil is narcissistic enough to let Patton read him the highlights. They're usually either complete fabrications or lines fed from their press team, but sometimes it's just funny. Given the choice, bed rather read one of the hundreds of glowing pieces of fanfiction about him on the internet, the up-to-eleven version of him with devastating charm and unbelievable physical stamina, but Pat flat-out refuses to read those aloud to him, no matter how much he tries to bribe him.

"Do _Us Weekly_ ," Virgil says.

"Hmm..." Pat digs it out of the stack. "Oh, look, we made the cover this week."

He flashes the glossy cover at him, which has a photo of the two of them inlaid in one corner, Patton's curly hair pinned back with glittery pastel barrettes and Virgil looking tired but still handsome, all pale sharp jawline and purple bangs. Below it in bold white letters, the headline reads: FIRST SIBLINGS' WILD NYC NIGHT.

"Oh yeah, that was a wild night," Virgil says, reclining back against the black wooden headboard and pushing his glasses up his nose. "Two whole keynote speakers. Nothing sexier than shrimp cocktails and an hour and a half of speeches on carbon emissions."

"It says here you had a tryst with a 'mystery brunette,'" Pat reads. "Though the older First Son was whisked off by limousine to a star-studded party shortly after the gala, twenty-one-year-old heartthrob Virgil was spotted sneaking into the W Hotel to meet a mystery brunette in the presidential suite and leaving around four a.m. Sources inside the hotel reported hearing amorous noises coming from the room all night, and rumours are swirling the brunette was none other than... _Logan Holleran,_ grandson of Vice President Mike Holleran and third member of the White House Trio. Could it be the two are rekindling their romance?"

"Yes!" Virgil crows, and Patton groans. "That's less than a month! You owe me fifty dollars, baby!"

"Hold on. Was it Logan?"

Virgil thinks back to the week before, showing up at Logan's room with a bottle of champagne. Their thing on the campaign trail a million years ago was brief, mostly to get the inevitable over with. They were seventeen and eighteen and doomed from the start, both convinced they were the smartest in the room. Virgil has since conceded that Logan is 100 percent smarter than him and definitely too smart to have ever dated him.

It's not his fault the press won't let it go, though; that they love the idea of them together as if they're modern-day Kennedys. So, if he and Logan occasionally get drunk in hotel rooms together watching _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ and making loud moaning noises at the wall for the benefit of nosy tabloids, he can't be blamed, really. They're simply turning an undesirable situation into their own personal entertainment.

Scamming his brother is also a perk.

"Maybe," he says, dragging out the vowels 

Pat swats him with the magazine. "That's cheating, kiddo!" 

"Bet's a bet," Virgil tells him. "We said if there was a new rumour in a month, you'd owe me fifty bucks. I take Venmo."

"I'm not paying," Patton huffs. "I'm gonna kill Lo when I see him tomorrow. What are you wearing, by the way?"

"For what?"

"The wedding."

"Whose wedding?"

"Uh, the _royal wedding,_ " Pat says. "Of England. It's literally on every cover I just showed you."

He holds up _Us Weekly_ again, and this time Virgil notices the main story in giant letters: PRINCE PHILLIP SAYS I DO! Along with a photograph of an extremely nondescript British heir and his equally nondescript blond fiancée smiling blandly. 

He drops his donut in a show devastation. "That's _this_ weekend?" 

"Virgil, we leave in the morning," Pat tells him. "We've got two appears few before we even go to the ceremony. I can't believe Talyn hasn't got on your case about this already."

"Shit," he groans. "I know I had that written down. I got sidetracked." He ignores the 'language!' from beside him.

"What, by conspiring with my best friends against me in the tabloids for fifty dollars?"

"No, with my research paper, smart-ass," Virgil says, gesturing dramatically at his piles of notes. "I've been working on it for Roman Political Thought all week. And I thought we agreed Logan is _our_ best friend."

"That can't possibly be a real class you're taking," Pat says. "Is it possible you willfully forgot about the biggest international event of the year because you don't want to see your arch-nemesis?"

"Pat, I'm the son of the President of the United States. Prince Roman is a figurehead of the British Empire. You can't just call him my 'archnemesis,'" Virgil says. He returns to his donut, chewing thoughtfully, and adds, "'Archnemesis' implies he's actually a rival to me on any level and not, y'know, a stuck-up product of inbreeding who probably jerks off to photos of himself."

"Oof."

"I'm just saying."

"Well, you don't have to like him, you just have to put on a happy face and not cause an international incident at his brother's wedding."

"Sunshine, when do I ever not put on a happy face?" Virgil says. He pulls a painfully fake grin, and Pat looks satisfyingly repulsed.

"Anyway, you know what you're wearing, right?"

"Yeah, I picked it out and had Talyn approve it last month. I'm not an animal." Virgil scoffs.

"I'm still not sure about my dress," Pat says. He leans over and snatches Virgil's laptop, ignoring his noise of protest. "Do you think the blue one or the one with the lace?"

"Lace, obviously. It's England. And why are you trying to make me fail this class?" he says, reaching for his laptop only to have his hand swatted away. "Go curate your Insta or something. You're the worst."

"Shush, I'm trying to pick something to watch. Ooh, you haven't watched _Game Of Thrones_ yet?"

"I hate you."

"Love you too," Pat ruffles Virgil's hair.

Outside his window, the wind stirs up over the lawn, rustling the linden trees down in the garden. The record on the turnrable in the corner has spun out into fuzzy silence. Virgil rolls off the bed and flips it, and the second side picks up on "Chlorine."

\-----

If he's honest, private aviation doesn't really get old, not even three years into his mother's term.

He doesn't get to travel this way a lot, but when he does, it's hard not to let it go to his head. He was born in the hill country of Texas to the daughter of a single mother and the son of Mexican immigrants, all of them dirt poor- luxury travel is still a luxury.

Fifteen years ago, when his mother first ran for the House, the Austin newspaper have her a nickname: the Lometa Longshot. She'd escaped her tiny hometown in the shadow of Fort Hood, pulled night shifts at diners to put herself through law school, and was arguing discrimination cases before the Supreme Court by thirty. She was the last thing anybody expected to rise up out of Texas in the middle of the Iraq War: a strawberry-blond, whip-smart Democrat with high heels, an unapologetic drawl, and a little biracial family.

So, it's still surreal that Virgil is cruising somewhere over the Atlantic, snacking on pistachios in a high-backed leather chair with his feet up. Logan is bent over the _New York Times_ crossword opposite him, brown curls falling across his forehead. Beside him, the hulking Secret Service agent October- Toby for short- holds his own copy in one hand, racing to finish it first. The cursor on Virgil's Roman Political Thought paper blinks expectantly at him from his laptop, but something in him can't quite focus on school while they're flying trans-atlantic.

Magenta, his mother's favorite Secret Service agent, a former Navy SEAL who's rumored around DC to have killed several men, sits across the aisle. He's got a bulletproof titanium case of crafting supplies open on the couch next to him and is serenely embroidering flowers onto a napkin. Virgil has seen him stab someone in the kneecap with a very similar embroidery needle.

Which leaves Pat, next to him, leaning on one elbow with his nose buried in the issue of _People_ he's inexplicably brought with them. He always chooses the most bizarre reading material for flights. Last time, it was a battered old Cantonese phrase book. Before that, _Death Comes for the Archbishop._

"What are you reading in there now?" Virgil asks him.

Pat flips the magazine around so he can see the double-page spread titled: ROYAL WEDDING MADNESS! Virgil groans. This is definitely worse than Willa Cather.

"What?" He says. "I want to be prepared for my first-ever royal wedding."

"You went to prom, didn't you?" Virgil says. "Just picture that, only in hell, and you have to be really nice about it."

"Kiddo, look at this. They spent $75,000 just on the cake." Pat says incredulously.

"That's depressing." 

"And apparently Prince Roman is going sans date to the wedding and everyone is freaking out about it. It says he was," he affects a comical English accent, 'rumored to be dating a Belgian heiress, but now followers of the prince's dating life aren't sure what to think.'"

Virgil snorts. It's insane to him that there are legions of people who follow the intensely dull dating lives of the royal siblings. He understands why people care where he puts his own tongue- at least _he_ has personality.

"Maybe the female population of Europe finally realized he's as compelling as a wet ball of yarn," Virgil suggests.

Logan puts down his crossword puzzle, having finished it first. October looks over and swears. "Are you going to ask him to dance, then?"

Virgil rolls his eyes, suddenly imagining twirling around a ballroom while Roman drones sweet nothings about croquet and fox hunting in his ear. The thought makes him want to gag.

"In his dreams."

"Aw," Logan mocks, "you're blushing."

"Listen," Virgil tells him, "royal weddings are trash, the princes who have royal weddings are trash, the imperialism that allows princes to exist at all is trash. It's trash turtles all the way down."

"Is this your TEDTalk?" Pat asks. "You do realize America is a genocidal empire too, right?"

"Yes, _Pat_ , but at least we have the decency not to keep the monarchy around," Virgil says, throwing a pistachio at him.

There are a few things about Virgil and Patton that new White House hires are briefed on before they start. Pat's peanut allergy. Virgil's frequent middle-of-the-night requests for coffee. Pat's college boyfriend, who broke up with him when he moved to California but is still the only person whose letters come to Pat directly. Virgil's long-standing grudge against the youngest prince.

It's not a grudge, really. It's not even a rivalry. It's a prickling, unsettling annoyance. It makes his palms sweat.

The tabloids- the world- decided to cast Virgil as the American equivalent of Prince Roman from day one, since the White House Trio is the closest thing America has to royalty. It's never seemed fair. Virgil's image is all nervous charisma and shy genius and smirking wit, thoughtful interviews and the cover of GQ at eighteen. Roman's is placid smiles and gentle chivalry and generic charity appearances, a perfectly blank Prince Charming canvas. Roman's role, Virgil thinks, is much easier to play.

Maybe it's technically a rivalry. Whatever.

"All right, MIT," he says, "what are the numbers on this one?" 

Logan grins. "Hmm." He pretends to think hard about it. "Risk assessment: FSOTUS failing to check himself before he wrecks himself will result in greater than five hundred civilian casualties. Ninety-eight percent probability of Prince Roman looking like a total dreamboat. Seventy-eight percent probability of Virgil getting himself banned from the United Kingdom forever."

"Those are better odds than I expected," Pat observes.

Virgil laughs, and the plane soars on.

London is an absolute spectacle, crowds cramming the streets outside Buckingham Palace and all through the city, draped in Union Jacks and waving tiny flags over their heads. There are commemorative royal wedding souvenirs everywhere; Prince Phillip and his bride's face plastered on everything from chocolate bars to underwear. Virgil almost can't believe this many people care so passionately about something so comprehensively dull. He's sure there won't be this kind of turnout in front of the White House when he or Pat get married one day, nor would he even want it.

The ceremony itself seems to last forever, but it's at least sort of nice, in a way. It's not that Virgil isn't into love or can't appreciate marriage. It's just that Martha is a respectable daughter of nobility, and Phillip is a prince. It's as sexy as a business transaction. There's no passion, no drama. Virgil's kind of love story is much more Shakespearian.

It feels like years before he's settled at a table between Pat and Logan inside a Buckingham Palace ballroom for the reception banquet, and he's irritated enough to be a little reckless. Logan passes him a flute of champagne, and he takes it gladly.

"Do either of y'all know what a viscount is?" Pat is saying, halfway through a cucumber sandwich. "I've met, like, five of them, and I keep smiling politely as if I know what it means when they say it. Virgil, you took comparative international governmental relational things. Whatever. What are they?"

"I think it's that thing when a vampire creates an army of sex waifs and starts his own ruling body," he says.

"That sounds about right," Logan says. He's folding his napkin into a complicated shape on the table, his shiny navy manicure glinting in the chandelier light.

"I wish I were a viscount," Pat says. "I could have my sex waifs deal with my emails."

"Are sex waifs good with professional correspondence?" Virgil asks.

Logan's napkin has begun to look like a bird. "I think it could be an interesting approach. Their emails would be all tragic and wanton." He tries on a breathless, husky voice. "'Oh, please, I beg you, take me- take me to lunch to discuss fabric samples, you beast!'"

"Could be weirdly effective," Virgil notes.

"Something is deeply wrong with both of you," Patton says gently.

Virgil is opening his mouth to retort when a royal attendant materializes at their table like a dense and dour-looking ghost in a bad hairpiece.

"The older Mister Claremont-Diaz," says the man, who looks like his name is probably Reginald or Bartholomew or something. He bows, and miraculously his hairpiece doesn't fall off into Pat's plate. Virgil shares an incredulous glance with him behind the man's back. "His Royal Highness Prince Roman wonders if you would do him the honor of accompanying him for a dance."

Patton's mouth freezes halfway open, caught on a soft vowel sound, and Virgil breaks out into a shit-eating grin.

"Oh, he'd _love_ to," Virgil volunteers. "Patton's been hoping he'd ask all evening."

"I-" Pat starts and stops, his mouth smiling even as his eyes slice at Virgil. Logan snickers quietly behind his hand. "Of course. That would be lovely."

"Excellent," Reginald-Bartholomew says, and he turns and gestures over his shoulder. 

And there Roman is, in the flesh, classically handsome as ever in his tailored red three-piece suit, all tousled reddish hair and high cheekbones, and a soft, friendly mouth. He holds himself with innately impeccable posture, as if he emerged fully formed and upright out of some beautiful Buckingham Palace posy garden one day.

His eyes lock on Virgil's, and something like annoyance or adrenaline spikes in Virgil's chest. He hasn't had a conversation with Roman in probably a year. His face is still infuriatingly symmetrical.

Roman deigns to give him a perfunctory nod, as if he's any other random guest, not the person he beat to a Vogue editorial debut in their teens. Virgil blinks, seethed, and watches Roman angle his stupid chiseled jaw towards Pat.

"Hello, Patton," Roman says, and he extends a gentlemanly hand to Pat, who is now blushing. Logan pretends to swoon behind his back. "Do you know how to waltz?"

"I'm... sure I can pick it up," he says, and Pat takes his hand cautiously, like he thinks he might be pranking him, which Virgil thinks is way too generous to Roman's sense of humor. Roman leads him off to the crowd of twirling nobles.

"So is that what's happening now?" Virgil says, glaring down at Logan's napkin bird. "Has he decided to finally shut me up by wooing my brother?"

"Aw, buddy," Logan mocks. He reaches over and pats Virgil's hand. "It's cute how you think everything's about you."

"I would prefer the opposite of that, honestly."

"That's the spirit."

He glanced up into the crowd, where Pat is being rotated around the floor by Roman. Pat's got a neutral, polite smile on his face, and Roman keeps on looking over his shoulder, which is even more annoying. Pat is amazing. The least Roman could do is pay attention to him.

"Do you think Roman actually likes him, though?"

Logan shrugs. "Who knows? Royals are weird. Might be a courtesy, or- oh, there it is."

A royal photographer has swooped in and is snapping a shot of them dancing, one that Virgil knows will be leaked to _Hello_ next week. So, that's it, then? Using one of the First Sons to start some idiotic dating rumor for attention? God forbid Phillip gets to dominate the news cycle for one week.

"He's kind of good at this," Logan remarks.

Virgil flags down a waiter and decides to spend the rest of the reception getting systematically drunk.

Virgil has never told- and never will tell- anyone, but he saw Roman for the first time when he was twelve years old. He only ever reflects upon it when he's drunk.

He's sure he saw his face in the news before then, but that was the first time he really _saw_ him. Pat had just turned fifteen and used part of his birthday money to buy an issue of a blindingly colorful teen magazine. His love of trashy tabloids started early. In the center of the magazine were miniature posters you could rip out and stick up in your locker. If you were careful and pried up the staples with your fingernails, you could get them out without tearing them. One of them, right in the middle, was a boy. 

He had thick, reddish hair and big blue eyes, a warm smile, and a cricket bat over one shoulder. It must have been a candid, because there was a happy, sun-bright confidence to him that couldn't be posed. On the bottom corner of the page in pink and blue letters: PRINCE ROMAN.

Virgil still doesn't know what kept drawing him back, only that he would sneak into Pat's room and find the page and touch his fingertips to the boy's hair, as if he could somehow feel its texture if he imagined it hard enough. The more his parent climbed in the political ranks, the more he started to reckon with the fact that soon the world would know who he was. Then, sometimes, he'd think if the picture, and try to mask his anxiety with Prince Roman's easy confidence.

(He also thought about prying up the staples with his fingers and taking the picture out and keeping it in his room, but he never did. His fingernails were too stubby and nervously bitten; they weren't made for it like Pat's.)

But then came the first time he met Roman- the first cool, detached words Roman said to him- and Virgil guessed he had it all wrong, that the pretty, flung-open boy from the picture wasn't real. The real Roman is beautiful, distant, boring and closed. The person the tabloids keep comparing him to, whom he compares _himself_ to, thinks he's _better_ than Virgil and everyone like him

Virgil can't believe he ever wanted to be anything like that. 

Virgil keeps drinking, keeps alternating between thinking about it and forcing himself not to think about it, disappears into the crowd and dances with pretty European heiresses about it. 

He's pirouetting away from one when he catches sight of a lone figure hovering near the cake and champagne fountain. It's Prince Roman yet again, glass in hand, watching Prince Phillip and his bride spinning in the ballroom floor. He looks politely half-interested I'm that obnoxious way of his, like he has somewhere else to be. And Virgil can't resist the urge to call his bluff.

He picks his way through the crowd, grabbing a glass of wine off a passing tray and downing half of it.

"When you have one of these," Virgil says, sidling up to him, "you should do two champagne fountains instead of one. Really embarrassing to be at a wedding with only one champagne fountain."

"Virgil," Roman says in that maddeningly posh accent. Up close, the waistcoat under his suit jacket is a lush gold and has about a million buttons on it. It's horrible. "I wondered if I'd have the pleasure."

"Looks like it's your lucky day," Virgil says, smirking.

"Truly a momentus occasion," Roman agrees. His own smile is bright white and immaculate, made to be printed on money.

The most annoying thing of all is Virgil _knows_ Roman hates him too- he _must_ , they're naturally mutual antagonists- but he refuses to outright act like it. Virgil is intimately aware politics involves a lot of making nice with people you loathe, but he wishes that once, just once, Roman would act like an actual human and not some polished little windup toy sold in a palace gift shop.

He's too perfect. Virgil wants to poke it.

"Do you ever get tired," Virgil says, "of pretending you're above all this?"

Roman turns and stares at him. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I mean, you're out here, getting the photographers to chase you, swanning around like you hate the attention, which you clearly don't since you're dancing with my brother if all people," Virgil snaps. "You act like you're too important to be anywhere, ever. Doesn't that get exhausting?"

"I'm... a bit more complicated than that," Roman attempts.

"Ha."

"Oh," Roman says, narrowing his eyes. "You're drunk."

"I'm just saying," Virgil says, resting an overly friendly elbow on Roman's shoulder, which isn't as easy as he'd like it to be since Roman has about four infuriating inches of height on him. "You could try to act like you're having fun. Occasionally."

Roman laughs ruefully. "I believe perhaps you should consider switching to water, Virgil."

"Should I?" Virgil says. He pushes aside the thought that maybe the wine is what gave him the nerve to stomp over to Roman in the first place and makes his eyes as coy and angelic as he knows how. "Am I offending you? Sorry I'm not obsessed with you like everyone else. I know that must be confusing for you."

"Do you know what?" Roman says, clipped. "I think you are."

Virgil's mouth drops open, while the corner of Roman's turns smug and almost a little mean.

"Only a thought," Roman says, tone polite. "Have you ever noticed I have never once approached you and have been _exhaustively_ civil every time we've spoken? Yet, here you are, seeking me out again." He takes a coy sip of champagne. "Just an observation."

"What? I'm not-" Virgil stammers, trying to collect himself enough to properly retort. "You're the-"

"Have a lovely evening, Virgil," Roman says tersely, and turns to walk off.

It drives Virgil _nuts_ that Roman thinks he gets to have the last word, and, without think, he reaches out and pulls Roman's shoulder back.

And then Roman turns, suddenly, and almost does push Virgil off him this time, and for a brief spark of a moment, Virgil is impressed at the glint in his eyes, the abrupt burst of an actual personality.

The next thing he knows, he's tripping over his own foot and stumbling backward into the table near him. He notices too late that the table is, to his horror, the one bearing the massive eight-tier wedding cake, and he grabs for Roman's arm to catch himself, but all it does is throw them both off balance and send them crashing together into the cake stand.

He watches, as if in slow motion, as the cake leans, teeters, shudders, and finally tips. There's absolutely nothing he can do to stop it. It comes crashing down into the floor in an avalanche of white buttercream, some kind of sugary $75,000 nightmare.

The room goes heart-stoppingly silent as momentum carries him and Roman through the fall and down, down onto the wreckage of the cake on the ornate carpet, Roman's sleeve still clutched in Virgil's fist. Roman's glass of champagne has spilled all over both of them and shattered, and out of the corner of his eye, Virgil can see a cut across the top of Roman's cheekbone beginning to bleed.

For a second, all he can think as he stares up at the ceiling while covered in frosting and champagne is that at least Roman's dance with Pat won't be the biggest story to come out of the royal wedding.

His next thought is that his mother is going to murder him in cold blood.

Beside him, he hears Roman mutter slowly, " _Oh my fucking Christ._ "

He registers dimly that it's the first time he's ever heard the prince swear, before the flash from someone's camera goes off.


	2. please work this time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cross ur fingers bois

With a resounding smack, Talyn slaps a stack of magazines down on the West Wing briefing table.

"This is just what I saw on the way here this morning," they say. "I don't think I need to remind you that I love two blocks away."

Virgil stares down at the headlines in front of him.

_THE $75,000 STUMBLE_

_BATTLE ROYAL: Prince Roman and FSOTUS Come To Blows At Royal Wedding_

_C A K E G A T E:_

_Virgil Claremont-Diaz Sparks Second English-American War_

Each one is accompanied by a photo of himself and Roman flat on their backs in a pile of cake, Roman's ridiculous suit all askew and smothered in smashed buttercream flowers, his wrist pinned in Virgil's hand, a thin slice of red across Roman's cheek.

"Are you sure we shouldn't be in the Situation Room for this meeting?" Virgil attempts to use sarcasm as a scapegoat.

Neither Talyn nor his mother seems to find it funny. The president gives him a withering look over the top of her reading glasses, and he clamps his mouth shut. He resolves not to open it for several decades.

It's not exactly that he's afraid of Talyn, his mom's deputy chief of staff and right-hand person. They have a spiky exterior, but Virgil swears there's something soft in there somewhere. He's more afraid of what his mother might do. They grew up talking about their feelings a lot, and then his mother became president, and life became less feelings and international relations. He's not sure which option spells out a worse fate.

"'Sources inside the royal reception report the two were seen arguing mere minutes before the... cake-tastrophe,'" Ellen reads out loud with utter disdain from her own copy of The Sun. Virgil doesn't even try to guess how she got her hands on today's edition of a British tabloid. President Mom works in mysterious ways. "'But royal family insiders claim the First Son's feud with Roman has raged for years. A source tells The Sun that Roman and the First Son have been at odds ever since their first meeting at the Rio Olympics, and the animosity has only grown- these days, they can't even be in the same room together. It seems it was only a matter of time before Virgil took the American approach: a violent altercation.'"

"I really don't think you can call tripping over a table a 'violent'-"

"Virgilius," Ellen says, her tone eerily calm. "Shut up."

He does.

"'One can't help but wonder,'" Ellen reads on, "'if the bitterness. Between these two sons has contributed to what many have called an icy and distant relationship between President Ellen's administration and the monarchy in recent years.'" she finishes.

She tosses the magazine aside, folding her arms on the table.

"Please, tell me another joke," His mother says, sentences clipped. "I want so badly for you to explain how this is funny."

Virgil opens his mouth and closes it a couple of times.

"He started it," he says finally. "I barely touched him- he's the one who pushed me, and I only grabbed him to try and catch my balance, and-"

"Sugar," his mom starts, "I cannot express precisely how much the press does not give a fuck who started what. As your mother, I can appreciate that this is maybe not your fault," she pauses. "But as the president all I want is to have the CIA fake your death and ride the dead-kid sympathy into a second term."

Virgil clenches his jaw. He's used to doing things that piss his mother's staff off- in his teens, he had a penchant for sneaking out to his friend Thomas's house at night and staying over, whiling away the night hours talking about bands and writing bad fanfiction about their favourite books, movies and shows- and he's been in the tabloids for much more outlandish things. But never in quite such a catclysmically, internationally terrible way.

"I don't have the time to deal with this right now, so here's what we're gonna do," Ellen says, pulling a folder out of her padfolio. It's filled with some official-looking documents punctuated with signatures and different colours of sticky tabs, and the first one reads _AGREEMENT OF TERMS._

"Um," Virgil says intelligently, blinking owlishly at the stack of documents.

"You," she says, "are going to make nice with Roman. You're leaving Saturday and spending Sunday in England."

Virgil blinks again. "Is it too late to take the faking-my-death option?"

"Talyn can brief you on the rest," Ellen goes on, ignoring his protests. "I have about five hundred meetings right now." She gets up and makes her way to the door, stopping to kiss his forehead. "You're a dumbass. Love you."

Then she's gone, heels clicking on laminated hardwood floors down the hallway, and Talyn takes her seat with a look on their face like they'd rather be arranging his funeral for real. They're not technically the most powerful or important player in the White House, but they've been working by Ellen's side since Virgil was five and Talyn was fresh out of Howard. They're the only one trusted to wrangle the First Family properly.

"All right, here's the deal," they say. "I was up all night conferencing with a bunch of uptight royal handlers and PR pricks and the prince's fucking equerry to make this happen, so you are going to follow this plan to the letter and not fuck this up, got it?"

Virgil still privately thinks that this whole thing is completely ridiculous, but he nods. Talyn looks deeply unconvinced, but presses on.

"First, the White House and the monarchy are going to release a joint statement saying what happened at the royal wedding was a complete accident and a misunderstanding-"

"Which it was."

"-and that, despite rarely having time to see each other, you and Prince Roman have been close personal friends for the past several years."

"We're _what_?"

"Look," Talyn says, taking a drag from her massive stainless steel thermos of coffee or tea or something. "Both sides need to come out of this looking good, and the only way to do that is to make it look like your little slap-fight at the wedding was some homo-erotic frat bro mishap, okay? So, you can hate the heir to the throne all you want, write mean, emo poems about him in your diary, but the minute you see a camera, you act like the sun shines out of his dick, and you make it convincing."

"Have you _met_ Roman?" Virgil rolls his eyes. "How am I supposed to do that? He has the personality of a cabbage."

"Are you really not understanding how much I don't care how you feel about this?" Talyn raises their eyebrows. "This is what's happening so your stupid ass doesn't distract the entire country from your mother's reelection campaign. Do you want her to have to get up on the debate stage next year and explain to the world why her son is trying to destabilize America's European relationships?"

Well, no, he doesn't. And he knows, in the back of his mind, that he's a better strategist than he's been about this, and that without this stupid grudge, he probably could've come up with this plan on his own.

"So Roman's your new best friend," Talyn continues. "You will smile and nod and not piss off anyone while you and Roman spend the weekend doing charity appearances and talking to the press and tabloids about how much you love each other's company. If somebody asks about him, I want to hear you gush like he's your fucking prom date."

They slide a page of bulleted lists and tables of data so elaborately organized he could have made it himself. It's labeled: _HRH PRINCE ROMAN FACT SHEET_

"You're going to memorize this so if anybody tries to catch you in a lie, you know what to say," they say. Under _HOBBIES_ , it lists polo and competitive yachting. Virgil is going to set himself on fire.

"Does he get one of these for me?" Virgil asks helplessly.

"Yep. And for the record, making it was one of the most depressing moments of my career." She slides another page over to him, this one detailing requirements for the weekend.

_Minimum two (2) social media posts per day highlighting England/visit thereof._

_One (1) on-air interview with ITV This Morning, lasting five (5) minutes, in accordance with determined narrative._

_Two (2) joint appearances with photographers present: one (1) private meeting, one (1) public charity appearance._

"Why do I have to go over there? He's the one who pushed me into the stupid cake- shouldn't he have to come here and go to SNL with me or something?"

Because it was the royal wedding you ruined, and they're the ones out seventy-five grand," Talyn pinches the bridge of their nose. Besides, we're arranging his presence at a state dinner in a few months. He's not any more excited about this than you are."

Virgil massages his temples, trying to think of an excuse not to go, even though he knows it's already a lost cause. "I have, uh, classes...?"

"You'll be back by Sunday night, DC time," Talyn tells him. "You won't miss anything."

"So there's no way I'm getting out of this?"

"Nope."

Virgil presses bus lips together. He needs a list.

He was nervous kid that grew into an anxious adult. So, when he was a kid, he used to hide pages and pages of papers covered in messy, loopy handwriting under the worn denim cushion of the window seat in the house in Austin. Writing always calmed him down, so he wrote about anything and everything: rambling treatises on the re of the government in America with all the Gs written backwards, paragraphs translated from English to Spanish, tables of his elementary school classmates' strengths and weaknesses. And lists. Lots of lists. The lists help.

So: Reasons this is a good idea.

One: His mother needs good press.

Two: Having a shitty record on foreign relations definitely won't help his career.

Three: Free trip to Europe

"Okay," he says hesitantly, taking the file. "I'll do it. But I won't have any fun."

"God, I hope not."

The White House Trip is, officially, the nickname for Virgil, Patton, and Logan, coined by People shortly before the inauguration. In actuality, it was carefully tested with focused groups by the White House press team and fed directly to People. Politics- calculating, even in hashtags.

Before the Claremonts, the Kennedys and Clintons shielded their First Offspring from the press, giving them the privacy to go through awkwards phases and organic childhood experiences and everything else. Sasha and Malia were hounded and picked apart by the press before they were out of high school. The White House Trio gotnahead of the narrative before anyone else found do the same.

It was a bold new plan: three attractive, bright, charismatic, marketable millennials- Virgil and Patton are, technically, just past Gen Z threshold, but the press doesn't find that nearly as catchy. Catchiness sells, coolness sells. Obama was cool. The whole First Family could be cool too; celebrities in their own right. It's not ideal, his mother always says, but it works.

They're the White House Trio, but here, in the music room in the third floor of the Residence, they're just Virgil and Patton and Logan, naturally glued together since they were teenagers stunting their growth with espresso in the primaries. Virgil pushes them. Logan steadies them. Patton keeps them honest.

They settle into their usual places: Pat, perching on a pair of pale teal flats by the record collection, foraging for some Cavetown; Logan, cross-legged on the floor, wrestling open a bottle of champagne with three flutes in one hand like Wolverine; Virgil, sitting upside down with his feet on the back of the scratchy couch,trying to figure out what to do next.

He flips the _HRH PRINCE ROMAN FACT SHEET_ over and squints at it. He can feel the blood rushing to his head and ignores the lightheadedness in favour of having an anxious crisis.

Pat and Logan are ignoring him, caught up in a bubble of intimacy he can never quite penetrate. Their relationship is something enormous and incomprehensible to most people, including Virgil on occasion. He knows them both down to their split ends and nasty habits (Logan pushes himself to burnout every few months. You didn't hear it from him.), but there's a strange bond of mutual pining and obliviousness that he can't, and knows he isn't supposed to, translate. 

"I thought you were digging the _Post_ gig?" Logan says. With a dull pop, he pulls the cork out of the neck of the bottle and pours himself a glass.

"Mayhaps," Pat giggles, before growing somewhat somber. "I was. I mean, I am. But it's not much of a gig. It's, like, one op-ed a month, and half my pitches get shot down for being too close to mom's platform, and even then, the press team has to read anything political before I turn it in," He sighs. "So it's like, email in these fluff pieces, and know that on the other side of the screen people are doing the most important journalism of their careers, and be okay with that."

"So... you don't like it, then."

Pat clicks his tongue, shrugs his shoulders, and slides the record he wants out of its sleeve. "I don't know what else to do, is the thing."

"That wouldn't give you even the smallest pitch that wasn't fluff?" Logan asks him.

"You kidding? That wouldn't even let me in the building," Pat says. He puts the record on and sets the needle. Hug all ur friends crackles and starts up, the soft music harshly contrasting Pat's clipped tone. "What would Reilly and Rebecca say?"

Logan nods sagely, "My parents would sag to do what they did: ditch journalism, get really into essential oils, buy a cabin in the Vermont wilderness, and own six hundred LL Bean vests that all smell like patchouli." He snorts uncharacteristically, taking another sip from his flute of champagne.

"You left out the investing-in-Apple-in-the-nineties-and-getting-stupid-rich part," Pat reminds him.

"Details"

Pat walks over and places his palm on the top of Logan's head, ruffling his straightened, usually impeccable hair, and leans down to press a kiss to his forehead. "I'll figure something out."

Logan hands over a glass, and Patton sips it, mildly amused at his own fate in the journalism industry. Virgil heaves an exhausted, dramatic sigh.

"Look, you're the one who has to fight everything that moves," Pat says tiredly, wiping his mouth on the soft sleeve of his pale pink, flat-collared sweater, a move he'd only make in front of the two of them. "Including the British monarchy. So, I only kinda feel bad for you. Anyway, he was totally fine when I danced with him. I don't get why you hate him so much."

"I think it's intriguing, with parallels to history," Logan says. "Sworn enemies forced to make peace to settle tensions between their countries-"

Patton interrupted excitedly, "There's something totally Shakespearean about it! "Shakespearean in that hopefully I'll get stabbed to death," Virgil says, ignoring Patton's noise of concern. "This sheet says his favourite food is mutton pie. I literally cannot think of a more boring food than fucking mutton pie. He's like a cardboard cutout of a person."

The sheet is filled with things Virgil already knew either from the royal siblings dominating the news cycle or hate-reading Roman's Wikipedia page. He knows about Roman's parentage, about his older siblings Phillip and Beatrice, that he studied English literature at Oxford and plays classical piano. The rest is so trivial he can't imagine it'll come up in an interview, but there's no way he'll risk Roman being more prepared.

"I have an idea to help Virgil study more effectively," Logan speaks up. "Let's make it a drinking game."

"Ooh, yes," Patton agrees. "Drink every time Virge gets one right?"

"Drink every time an answer makes you want to puke?" Virgil suggests.

"One drink for a right answer, two for a Prince Roman fact that is legitimately, objectively awful." Logan refills all of their glasses and hands the sheet to Patton. Virgil slides off the couch onto the rug-covered floor.

"Okay," he goes on, flipping through the sheets. "We'll start with an easy one. Parents. Go."

Virgil picks up his glass, already pulling up a mental image of Roman's parents, Valerie's shrewd blue eyes and Leo's movie-star jaw.

"Mother: Princess Valerie, oldest daughter of Queen Declyn, first princess to obtain a doctorate- English literature," he rattles off. "Father: Leo Fox, beloved English film and stage actor best known for his turn as James Bond in the eighties, deceased 2015. Y'all drink."

They do, and Logan snatches the list from between Patton's pale blue fingernails.

"Okay," Logan says, scanning the list, apparently looking for something more challenging. "Let's see. Dog's name?"

"David," Virgil says. "He's a beagle. I remember, because, like, who does that? Who names a dog David? He sounds like a tax attorney. Like a dog tax attorney. Drink!"

"Best friend's name, age, and occupation?" Logan asks. "Best friend other than you, of course."

Virgil glares at him, flipping him off and falling back to stare at the popcorn ceiling. "Remington Okonjo. Goes by Remy or Rem. Heir to Okonjo Industries, Nigerian company leading Africa in biomedical advancements. Twenty-two, lives in London, met Roman at Eton. Manages the Okonjo Foundation, a humanitarian nonprofit. Drink!" 

"Favourite book?" 

"Uh," Virgil says intelligently. "Um. Fuck. Uh. What's the one-"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Claremont-Diaz, that is incorrect," Pat says. "Thank you for playing, but you lose." 

"Come on, what's the answer?"

Patton peers over Logan's shoulder down at the list. "This says... Great Expectations?"

Both Logan and Virgil groan.

"Do you see what I mean now?" Virgil says. "This dude is reading Charles Dickens... for pleasure."

"I'll give you this one," Logan concedes. "Two drinks!"

"Well, I think-" Pat says as Logan glugs away. "Guys, it's kinda nice! I mean it's pretentious, but the themes if Great Expectations are all like, love is more important than status, and doing what's right is worth more than money and power. Mayhaps he relates to-"

"Sure, Jan."

"Really! Y'all are so mean! He seems really nice!"

"That's because you are a nerd," Virgil says. "You want to protect those of your own species. It's why you have a-" 

Patton practically lunges at him, clamping a hand over his mouth. "I am helping you out of the goodness of my heart. I am on deadline! And this is how you repay me? In my own home?" Virgil wriggles out of his grip.

"Hey, what do you think Talyn put on my fact sheet?"

"Hmm," Logan says, sucking air through his teeth. "Favourite Summer Olympics Sport: Rhythmic Gymnastics-"

"I'm not ashamed of that."

"Favourite Brand Of Ripped Jeans: Hot Topic."

"Listen, they look best on my ass. The H&M ones wrinkle all weird."

"Right, and you're not just an emo fuck."

"Oh! Allergies: dust, Tide laundry detergent, and shutting the fuck up."

"Age of first filibuster: nine, at SeaWorld San Antonio, trying to force an orca wrangler into early retirement for, and I quote, 'inhumane whale practices.'"

"I stood by it then, and I stand by it now."

Patton throws his head back and laughs, loud and unguarded, and Logan rolls his eyes, and Virgil is glad, at least, that he'll have this to return to when the nightmare is over.

Virgil expects Roman's handler to be some storybook Englishman with tails and a top hat, probably a walrus mustache definitely scurrying to place a velvet footstool at Roman's carriage door.

The person who awaits him on the tarmac is very much not that. He's a tall twenty-something caucasian man in an impeccably tailored suit, roguishly handsome with a scraggly, trimmed beard, a steaming cup of tea, and a shiny Union Jack on his lapel. Well, okay, then.

"Agent Chen," the man smiles, extending his free hand towards Magenta. "Hope the flight was smooth.

Magenta nods. "As smooth at the third trans-atlantic flight in a week can be."

The man half-smiles, comiserative. "The Land Rover us for you and your team for the duration."

Magenta nods once more, releasing his hand, and the man turns his attention to Virgil.

"Mr. Claremont-Diaz," he says. "Welcome back to England. Joan Stokes. They/them. Prince Roman's equerry." An attendant behind him retrieves his bags from under the plane's belly.

Virgil is confused for a moment before it dawns on him, and, oh. _Oh_. Then, a flash of self-hatred before the disappointed guilt sets in and he's scrambling to apologise to them. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry! I'm so _fucking stupid_ , how did I not see that, oh my _god_ , you must be so mad at me-"

They smile. "It's alright. You couldn't have known." They turn sharply, pulling a small tablet and pivot on their heel towards the waiting car. Virgil stares at their back, speechless, before hastily refusing to be impressed by a grown adult whose job is handling the prince's schedule, no matter how cool they are or how long and smooth their strides are. He shakes his head and jogs to catch up, sliding into the backseat of the car as Joan checks the mirrors 

"Right," Joan says. "You'll be staying in the guest quarters at Kensington Palace. Tomorrow you'll do the This Morning interview at nine- we've arranged for a photo call at the studio. Then it's children with cancer all afternoon and off you go back to the land of the free."

"Okay," Virgil says. He very politely dies not add, could be worse.

"For now," Joan says, "you're to come with me to chauffeur the prince from the stables. One of our photographers will be there to photograph the prince welcoming you to the country, do do look pleased to be here."

Of course, there are _stables_ the prince needs to be _chauffeured_ from. He was briefly worried he'd been wrong about what the weekend would look like, but this feels a lot more like it.

"If you'll check the seat pocket in front of you," Joan says as he reverses. "there are a few papers for you to sign. Your lawyers have already approved them." They pass back an expensive-looking black fountain pen.

_NONDISCLOSURE AGREEMENT_ , the top of the first page reads. Virgil flips through to the last page- there are at least fifteen pages of text- and a low whistle escapes his lips.

"This is..." Virgil says incredulously. "a thing you do often?"

"Standard protocol," Joan says. "The reputation of the royal family is too valuable to risk."

_The words "Confidential Information," as used in this Agreement, shall include the following:_

_1\. Such information as HRH Prince Roman or any member of the Royal Family may designate to the Guest as "Confidential Information";_

_2\. All proprietary and financial information regarding HRH Prince Roman's personal wealth and estate;_

_3\. Any interior architectural details of Royal Residences including Buckingham Palace, Kensington Palace, etc., and personal effects found therein;_

_4\. Any information regarding or involving HRH Prince Roman's personal or private life not previously released by official Royal documents, speeches, or approved biographers, including any personal or private relationship the Guest may have with HRH Prince Roman;_

_5\. Any I formation found on HRH Prince Roman's personal electronic devices..._

This seems... excessive, like the kind of paperwork you get from some perverted millionaire who wants to buy t you for sport. He wonders what the most mind-numbingly wholesome public figure on earth could possibly have to hide. He hopes it's not people-hunting.

Virgil is no stranger to NDAs, though, so he signs and initials. It's not like he would've divulged all the boring details of this trip to anyone anyway, except maybe Patton and Logan.

They pull up to the stables after another fifteen minutes, his security close behind them. The royal stables are, of course, elaborate and well-kept and about a million miles from the old ranches he's seen out in the Texas panhandle. Joan leads him out to the edge of the paddock, and Magenta and his team regroup ten paces behind.

Virgil rests his elbows on the lacquered white fence boards, fighting back the sudden feeling he's underdressed. On any other day, his ripped jeans and leather jacket would be fine for a casual photo op, but for the first time in a long time, he feels out of his element. It's a distinctly awful feeling.

It's not like Roman is going to look much better after polo practice. He'll probably be sweaty and disgusting.

As if on cue, Roman comes galloping around the bend on the back of a pristine white horse.

He is not sweaty nor disgusting. He's is, instead, bathed dramatically in a sweeping and resplendent sunset, wearing a crisp black jacket and riding pants tucked into tall leather boots, looking every inch an actual fairy-tale prince. He hooks his helmet and takes it off with one white-gloved hand, his hair underneath just attractively tousled enough to look like it's supposed to be like that.

"I'm going to throw up on you," Virgil says as soon as Roman's close enough to hear him.

"Hello, Virgil," Roman says, and Virgil really resents the extra few inches of height Roman has on him. "You look... sober."

"Only for you, Your Royal Highness," he says with an elaborate mock bow. He's pleased to hear a little heat behind Roman's voice, finally done pretending.

"You're too kind," Roman says. He swings one long leg (this is just unfair now) over and dismounts from his horse gracefully, removing his left glove and extending that hand to Virgil. A well-dressed stable hand practically springs out of the ground to whisk the horse away. Virgil has probably never hated anything more.

"This is idiotic," Virgil says, shaking Roman's hand. His skin is soft, probably exfoliated and moisturized daily by some royal manicurist. There's a royal photographer right on the other side of the fence, so he smiles winningly and says through his teeth, "Let's get this over with, you fucking walnut."

"I'd rather be waterboarded," Roman says, smiling back. The camera snaps nearby. His eyes are big and soft and brown, and he desperately needs to be punched in one of them. "Your country could probably arrange that."

Virgil throws his head back and laughs handsomely, loud and fake. "Go fuck yourself."

"Hardly enough time," Roman says. He releases Virgil's hand as Joan returns.

"Your Highness," Joan greets Roman with a nod. Virgil makes a concentrated effort not to scoff and roll his eyes. "The photographer should have what he needs, so if you're ready, the car is waiting."

Roman turns to him and smiles again, eyes unreadable. "Shall we?"

There's something vaguely familiar with the Kensington Palace guest quarters, even though he's never been here in his life.

Joan had an attendant show him to his room, where his luggage awaited in an ornately carved bed with spun gold bedding. Many of the rooms in the White House have a similar haunted was, a sense of time and history that hangs mine cobwebs no matter how pristine the rooms are kept. He's used to sleeping with ghosts, but that's not it. 

It strikes further back in his memory, around the time parents split up. They were the kind of married lawyer couple that could barely order Chinese takeout without legally binding documents, so Virgil spent the summer before seventh grade going back and forth between home and their dad's new place outside of LA until they could strike a long-term arrangement.

It was a nice house in the valley, with a clear blue swimming pool and a back wall of solid glass. He never slept well there. He would sneak out of his thrown-together bedroom in the middle of the night, stealing gelato from the freezer and sitting with his feet in the pool, washed blue in the neon light.

That's how it feels here, a little- sleepless at midnight in an unfamiliar place, trying to make it work.

He wanders into the kitchen attached to the guest wing, where the high ceilings echo and the countertops are shiny metal. He was allowed to submit a list to stock the kitchen, but apparently it was too hard to get gelato on short notice, because the only thing in the freezer is UK-brand packaged ice cream cones.

" _What's it like?_ " Logan's voice is tinny through his phones speaker, and his hair is pushed back with his tie. He's hunched over papers with what Virgil assumes is at least his fifth Redbull in one hand and a pen in the other.

"Weird," Virgil says, pushing his rarely-worn reading glasses up his nose. "Everything looks like it belongs in a museum. I don't think I'm allowed to show you anything, though. NDAs, y'know?"

" _Ooh_ ," Patton pokes his head into the screen from the corner, where he's lounging on a beanbag. " _So secretive. So fancy_." He wiggles his eyebrows, and Virgil snorts behind the screen.

"Please," Virgil laughs. "If anything, it's creepy. I had to sign such a massive NDA that I'm convinced I'm going to drop into a secret torture dungeon any minute."

_"I bet he has a secret lovechild_ ," Logan says. " _Or he's gay. Or he has a secret gay lovechild."_

"It's probably in case I see his equerry putting his batteries back in," Virgil quips. "Anyway, this is boring. What's going on with y'all? Your lives are so much more interesting than mine."

" _You're literally in a castle, but whatever_."

"Shut your fuck."

" _Well_ ," Logan says tiredly, " _Nate Silver won't stop blowing up my phone for another column. Bought some new astronomically-accurate curtains of constellations. Narrowed down the list of grad school concentrations to astronomy or data science."_

"Tell me those are both at GW," Virgil says, hopping up to sit on top of one of those immaculate countertops. "You can't leave me alone in DC. I'll die of panic before I even enter the building without you."

" _Haven't decided yet, but, astonishingly, my criteria are not decided by you. However, if it comforts you, GW is indeed one of my candidates_." Logan looks distinctly uncomfortable with this topic of conversation, so Virgil changes the subject.

"So, the plan is to dethrone Nate Silver as reigning data czar of DC?"

Logan laughs. " _No, I'm going to silently compile and process enough data to know exactly what's going to happen for the next twenty-five years. Then I'm going to buy a house on a very tall hill at the edge of the city and become an eccentric recluse, watching it all unfold through my binoculars and making star charts."_

Virgil starts to laugh, but stops when he hears footsteps echoing in one of the hallways that leads into the guest kitchen. Princess Missy lives in a different section of the palace, and so does Roman. The PPOs and his own security sleep on this floor, though, so maybe-

"Hold on," Virgil says, covering the speaker.

A light flicks on in the hallway, and the person who comes padding into the kitchen is none other than Prince Roman.

His clothes are rumpled and he's half awake, shoulders slumping as be yawns. He's standing in front of Virgil wearing not a suit, but a heather-gray t-shirt and plaid pajama pants. He has earbuds in, and his hair is a ness. His feet are bare.

He looks, startlingly, human.

He freezes when he sees Virgil, perched like a startled bird, on the countertop. In his hand, Patton begins a muffled, " _Is that-_ " before Virgil hangs up.

Roman pulls out his earbuds, straightening his posture, but his face is still bleary and confused.

"Hello," his voice is hoarse. "Er. Sorry. I was just- Cornettos."

He gestures to the fridge, as if Virgil has understood any of what he just said.

"What?" _Oh no oh no oh no I'm so stupid why did I say that anyone else would know what that means fuck-_

He crosses to the freezer and pulls out the box of ice cream cones, showing Virgil the name _Cornetto_ across the front. "I was out. Knew they'd stocked you up."

"Do you raid the kitchens of all your guests?" Virgil asks, mildly amused and internally panicking at the same time.

"Only when I can't sleep," Roman says. "Which is always." He chuckles self-deprecatingly. "Didn't think you'd be awake." He looks at Virgil, deferring, and Virgil realises that he's waiting for permission to take one. Virgil thinks about telling him no, simply for the thrill of denying a prince- no, _this_ prince- something, but he's kinda intrigued. He usually can't sleep either. He nods.

He waits for Roman to take one and leave, but instead he looks up at Virgil again.

"Have you practiced what you'll say tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Virgil says, bristling. "You're not the only professional here."

"I didn't mean-" Roman falters, then starts again. "I only meant, do you think we should, er, rehearse?"

"Do you need to?"

"I thought it might help." Of course, he thinks that. Everything he's ever done in public has been rehearsed a thousand times in a stuffy royal room like this one.

Virgil hops off the counter, swiping his phone unlocked. "Can I?"

"What?"

"You'll see." He lines up a shot: the box of Cornettos on the counter, Roman's hand on the marble next to it. His heavy signet ring has a backdrop of pajama pants. He opens up Instagram, slaps a filter on it.

"' _Nothing cures jet lag_ ,'" Virgil narrates in a monotone, typing out a caption. "' _like midnight ice cream with @PrinceRoman.'_ Geotag Kensington Palace, and posted." He sets down the phone, letting Roman peer over his shoulder at the comments and likes pouring in. "There are a lot of things worth overthinking. Trust me, I know. But this? This isn't one of them."

"I suppose," Roman says, looking doubtful.

"Are- are you done?" Virgil stammers, having filled his quota of 'annoying prince' for the day. "I was on a call."

Roman blinks, then crosses his arms, back on the defensive. "Of course. I won't keep you."

As he leaves the kitchen, he pauses in the doorframe.

"I didn't know you wore glasses," Roman says after some consideration, leaving Virgil staring at him with a box of Cornettos melting on the counter.

The ride to the studio for the interview is bumpy but quick. Alex should probably blame his nausea on nerves, but he chooses to blame it on this morning appalling breakfast spread. What kind of garbage country eats bland beans on white toast for breakfast? He can't decide if his Mexican blood or his Texan blood is more offended.

Roman sits beside him, surrounded by a cloud of attendants and stylists. One adjusts his wavy hair with a fine-toothed comb. One holds up a notepad with cramped handwriting illustrating various talking points. One tugs his collar straight. From the passenger seat, Joan shakes a yellow pill out of a tiny bottle and passes it back to Roman, who swallows it dry. Virgil gives him side-eye and and decides that he doesn't want or need to know.

The motorcade pulls up in front of the studio, and when the door slides open, there's the promised photo line and barricaded royal worshippers. Roman turns and looks at him, a little grimace around his mouth and eyes.

"Prince goes first, then you," Joan says to Virgil, leaning in and touching his earpiece. Virgil takes a couple shaky breaths, tapping out a rhythm on the back of his wrist, and turns it on: the megawatt smile, the All-American charm that's saved his ass more times than he can count.

"Go ahead, Your Royal Highness," Virgil says, winking as he adjusts his nose ring. "Your subjects await."

Roman clears his throat and unfolds himself, stepping out into the light and waving to the crowd in a bland sort of manner. Cameras flash and photographers shout. A blond girl with a blue bandanna in the crowd lifts up a homemade poster that reads in big, glittery letters, _GET IN ME, PRINCE ROMAN_! for about five seconds until a member of the security team shoves it into a garbage can next to her.

Virgil steps out next, pulling at a braided purple bracelet that he and Lo and Pat made in fifth grade behind his similarly coloured bangs and throwing a false bravado-filled arm over Roman's shoulder.

"Act like you like me!" Virgil says with a cheerfulness that only belongs in cartoons and on con men. Roman looks at him like he'd rather feed a birthing chihuahua a taco, before tipping his head back with a well-rehearsed laugh. "There we go."

The hosts of This Morning are agonizingly British- a young, prim, dark-skinned woman named Allura in a tea dress and a man called Coran with an outrageous orange mustache and matching mullet who looks as if he spends his weekends yelling at mice in his garden. Virgil watches the introductions backstage as a makeup artist conceals a stress pimple on his forehead. So, this is happening. He tries to ignore Roman a few feet to his left, currently getting a final preening from a royal stylist. It's the last chance he'll get to ignore Roman until he sleeps. 

Soon Roman is leading the way out with Virgil close behind. Virgil shakes Allura's hand first, smiling his Politics Smile at her, the one that makes a lot of congresswomen and more than a few congressmen want to tell him things they shouldn't. Instead, she giggles and kisses him on the cheek. The audience claps and claps and claps.

Roman sits on the prop couch next to him, posture perfect as always, and Virgil smiles at him, making an effort to look comfortable in Roman's company. Which is harder than. It should be, because the stage lights suddenly make him uncomfortably aware of how fresh and handsome Roman looks for the cameras. He's wearing a red sweater over a button-down, and his hair looks dark and soft.

Whatever, fine. Roman is annoyingly attractive. That's always been a thing, objectively. It's fine. He's fine.

He realizes, almost a second too late, that Allura is asking him a question.

"What do you think of _jolly old England_ , then, Virgil?" Allura says, clearly beginning to grill him. Virgil forces a smile, and it's not as hard as it should be.

"You know, Allura, it's gorgeous," Virgil says, tapping his finger nervously on the inside of his wrist. "I've been here a few times since my mom get elected, and it's always incredible to see the history here, and the beer selection." The audience laughs, right on cue. "And, of course, it's always great to see this guy," He turns to Roman, extending a cleverly concealed shaky fist. Roman hesitates before stiffly bumping his own knuckles against Virgil's with the heavy air of an act of treason.

Virgil's whole reason for wanting to go into politics, after so many presidential children have run away screaming the minute they turned eighteen, is that he genuinely cares about people.

The power is great, the attention's kinda fun, but the people- the people are everything. He has a bit of a caring-too-much problem. Usually, it's just what people think of him, but it's also whether people can pay their medical bills, or marry whomever they live, or not get shot at school. Or, in this case, if kids have enough books to read at the Royal Marsden NHS Foundation Trust.

He and Roman and their collective horde of security have taken over the floor, clustering nurses and shaking hands. He's trying- really trying- not to let his hands clench into fists at his sides, but Roman's smiling at the side of a little bald boy plugged full of tubes for some bullshit picture, and he wants to scream at this whole stupid country.

But he's legally required to be here, so he focuses on the kids, instead. Most of them have no idea who he is, but Roman gamely introduces him as the president's son, and soon they're asking him about the White House and does he know Ariana Grande, and he laughs and indulges them. He unpacks books from the heavy boxes they've brought, climbs into beds and reads out loud, a photographer trailing after him.

He doesn't realize he's lost track of Roman until the patient he's visiting dozes off, and he recognises the low rumble of Roman's voice under the curtain.

A quick count of feet on the floor- no photographers, just Roman. Hmm.

He steps quietly overto the chair against the wall, right at the edge of the curtain. If he sits at the right angle and cranes his head back, he can just barely see inside.

Roman is talking to a little girl with leukemia named Claudette, according to the board on her wall. She's got dark skin that's turned a sort of a pale gray and a bright orange headscarf emblazoned with the Alliance Starbird.

Instead of hovering awkwardly like Virgil expected, Roman is squatting her side, smiling and holding her hand.

"...Star Wars fan, are you?" Roman says j a low, warm tone Virgil has never heard from him before, pointing at the insignia on her headscarf.

"Oh, it's my absolute favourite," Claudette gushes. "I'd like to be just like Princess Leia when in older because she's so tough and smart and strong, and she gets to kiss Han Solo."

She blushed a little at having mentioned kissing in front of a prince but fiercely maintains she contact. Virgil finds himself craning his neck farther, watching for Roman's reaction. He definitely does not recall star Wars being on the fact sheet.

"You know what," Roman says, leaning in conspiriatorily, "I think you've got the right idea."

Claudette giggles. "Who's your favourite?"

"Hmm," Roman says, making a show of thinking hard. "I always liked Luke. He's brave and good, and he's the strongest Jedi of them all. I think Luke is proof that it doesn't matter where you come from or who your family is- you can always be great if you're true to yourself."

"All right, Miss Claudette," a nurse says brightly as she comes around the curtain. Roman jumps, and Virgil almost falls off his chair, caught in the act. He clears his throat as he stands, pointedly not looking at Roman. "You two can do, it's time for her meds."

"Miss Beth, Roman said we were mates now!" Claudette practically wails. "He can stay!"

"Excuse you!" Beth the nurse tuts. "That's no way to address the prince. Terribly sorry, Your Highness."

"No need to apologise," Roman tells her. "Rebel commanders outrank royalty." He shoots Claudette a wink and a salute, and she positively melts.

"I'm impressed," Virgil says as they walk out into the hallway together. Roman raises his eyebrows, and Virgil adds, "Not impressed, just surprised."

"At what?"

"That you actually have, y'know, feelings."

Roman is beginning to smile when three things happen in rapid succession.

One: A shout echoes from the opposite end of the hallway.

Two: There's a loud lol that sounds alarmingly like gunfire.

Three: October grabs both Roman and Virgil by the arms and shoves them through the nearest door.

"Stay down," Toby grunts as he slams the door behind them.

In the abrupt darkness, Virgil stumbles over a mop and one of Roman's legs,and they go crashing down together into a clattering pile of tin bedpans. Roman hits the floor first, facedown, and Virgil lands in a heap on top of him.

"Oh God," Roman says, muffled and echoing slightly. Virgil thinks hopefully that his face landed in a bedpan.

"You know," he says into Roman's hair, "we have got to stop ending up like this."

"Do you _mind_?"

"This is your fault!"

"How is this _possibly_ my fault?" Roman hisses.

"Nobody ever tried to shoot me when I'm doing presidential appearances, but the minute I go out with a _fucking royal-"_

"Will you shut up before you get us both killed?"

"Nobody's going to kill us. Toby's blocking the door. Besides, it's probably nothing."

"Then at least get off me."

"Stop telling me what to do! You're not the prince of me!"

"Bloody hell," Roman mutters, and he pushed hard off the ground and rolls, knocking Virgil into the floor. Virgil finds himself wedges between Roman's side and a shelf of what smells like industrial-strength floor cleaner.

"Can you move over, Your Highness?" Virgil whispers, shoving his shoulder against Roman's. "I'd rather not be the little spoon."

"Believe me, I'm trying," Roman replies. "There's no room."

Outside, there are voices, hurried footsteps- no signs of an all-clear.

"Well," Virgil says. "Guess we better make ourselves comfortable."

Roman exhales tightly. "Fantastic."

Virgil feels him shifting at his side, arms crossed over his chest in attempt at his typical closed-off stance while lying on the floor with his feet in a mop bucket.

"For the record," Roman says, "nobody's ever made an attempt on my life either."

"Well, congratulations," Virgil says. "You've finally made it big."

"Yes, this is exactly how I'd always dreamed it would be. Locked in a cupboard with your elbow inside my ribcage." Roman snipes. He sounds like he wants to punch Virgil, which is probably the most Virgil's ever liked him, so he follows an impulse and drives his elbow into Roman's side, hard.

Roman lets out a muffled yelp, and the next thing Virgil knows, he's been yanked sideways by his shirt and Roman is halfway on top of him, pinning him down with one thigh. His head throbs where he's knocked it on the linoleum floor, but he feels himself smile.

"So you do have some fight in you," Virgil says. He bucks his hips, trying to shake Roman off, but he's taller and stronger and has a fistful of Virgil's collar.

"Are you quite finished?" Roman says, sounding strangled. "Can you perhaps stop putting your sodding life in danger now?"

"Aw, you do care," Virgil says. "I'm learning all your hidden depths today, sweetheart."

Roman exhales and slumps off him against the wall. "I cannot believe even mortal peril will stop you from being the way you are."

The weirdest part, Virgil thinks, is that he's not entirely wrong.

He keeps getting these little glimpses into things he never thought Roman was. A bit of a fighter, for one. Intelligent, interested in other people. It's honestly disconcerting. He knows exactly what to say to each Democratic Senator to get them to dish about bills, exactly when Talyn'd running low on nicotine gum, exactly which look to give Pat for the rumor mill. Reading people is what he does.

He really doesn't appreciate some inbred royal baby upending his system. But he did rather enjoy that fight.

He lies there, wits. Listens to the shuffling of feet outside the door. Lets minutes go by.

"So, uh," he tries. "Star Wars?"

He means it in a nonthreatening way, but habit wins and it comes off accusingly.

"Yes, Virgil," Roman says archly, "believe it or not, the children of the crown don't only spend their childhood going to tea parties."

"I assumed it was mostly posture coaching and junior polo league."

Roman takes a deeply unhappy pause. "That... may have been a part of it."

"So you're into pop culture, but you act like you're not," Virgil muses. "Either you're not allowed to talk about it because you want people to think you're cultured. Which one?"

"Are you psychoanalyzing me?" Roman asks. "I don't think royal guests are allowed to do that."

"I'm trying to understand why you're so commited to acting like someone you're not, considering you just told that little girl in there that greatness means being true to yourself."

"I don't know what you're talking about, and, if I did, I'm not sure that's any of your concern," Roman says, his voice strained at the edges.

"Really? Because I'm pretty sure I'm legally bound to be your best friend, and, I don't know if you e thought this through yet, but that's not going to stop with this weekend." Virgil tells hi. Roman's fingers go tense against his forearm. "If we do this and are never seen together again, people are going to know were full of shit. We're stuck with each other, like it or not, so I have a right to be clued in on what your deal is before it sneaks up on me and bites me in the ass."

"Why don't we start..." Roman says turning his head to squint at him. This close Virgil can just make out the silhouette of Roman's strong royal nose. "...with you telling me why exactly you hate me so much?"

"Do you really want to have that conversation?"

"Maybe I do."

Virgil crosses his arms, recognises it as a mirror to Roman's tic, and uncrosses them. 

"Do you seriously not remember being a prick to me at the Olympics?"

Virgil remembers it in vivid detail: himself at eighteen, dispatched to Rio with Pat and Logan, the campaign's delegation to the summer games. One weekend of photo ops and selling the "next generation of global cooperation" image. Virgil spent most of it drinking caipirinhas and subsequently throwing caipirinhas up behind Olympic venues. And he remembers, down to the Union Jack on Roman's anorak, the first time they met.

Roman sighs. "Is that the time you threatened to push me into the Thames?"

"No," Virgil says in frustration. "It was the time you were a condescending prick to me at the diving finals. You really don't remember?"

"Remind me?"

Virgil glares. "I walked up to you to introduce myself, and you stares at me like I was the most offensive thing you'd ever seen. Right after you shook my hand, you turned to Joan and said, 'Can you get rid of him?'"

A pause.

"Ah," Roman says. he clears his throat. "I didn't think you'd heard that."

"I feel like you're missing the point," Virgil says, "which is that it's a douchey thing to say either way."

"That's... fair."

"Yeah, so."

"That's all?" Roman asks. "Only the Olympics?"

"I mean, that was the start."

Roman pauses again. "I'm sensing an ellipsis."

"It's just..." Virgil says, and as he's on the floor of a supply closet, waiting out a security threat with a Prince of England at the end off a weekend that has felt like some very specific ongoing nightmare, censoring himself talked too much effort. "I don't know. Doing what we do is fucking hard. But it's harder for me. I'm the son of the first female president. And I'm not white like she is, can't even pass for it. People will always come down harder on me. and you're, y'know, you, and you were born into all of this, and everyone thinks you're Prince fucking Charming. You're basically a living reminder I'll always be compared to someone else, no matter what I do, even if I work twice as hard."

Roman is quiet for a long while.

Well," Roman says when he speaks at last

"I can't very well do much about the rest. But I can tell you that I was, in fact, a prick that day. Not that it's any excuse, but my father had died fourteen months before, and I was kind of a prick every day of my life at the time. And I am sorry."

Roman twitches one hand at his side, and Virgil falls momentarily silent.

The cancer ward. Of course, Roman chose a cancer ward- it was right there on the fact sheet. Father: Famed film star Leo Fox, deceased 2015, pancreatic cancer. The funeral was televised. He goes back over the last twenty-four hours in his head: the sleeplessness, the pills, the tense little grimace Roman does in public that Virgil had always read as aloofness.

He knows a few things about this stuff. It's not like his parents' divorce was a pleasant time for him, or like he runs himself ragged about his grades for fun. He's been aware for too long that most people don't navigate thoughts of whether they'll ever be good enough or worry that they're disappointing the world. He's never considered that Roman might also feel any of the same things.

Roman clears his throat again, and something like panic catches Virgil. He opens his mouth and says, "Well, good to know you're not perfect."

He can almost hear Roman roll his eyes l, and he's thankful for it, the familiar comfort of antagonism.

They're silent again, the dust of the conversation settling. Virgil can't hear anything outside the door or any sirens on the street, but nobody has come to get them yet. 

Then, unprompted, Roman says into the stretching stillness, " _Return of the Jedi_."

A beat. "What?"

"To answer your question," Roman says. "Yes, I do like Star Wars, and my favourite is _Return of the Jedi_."

"Oh," Virgil says. "Wow, you're wrong."

Roman huffs out the finest, most poshly indignant puff of air. It smells minty. Virgil resists the urge to throw another elbow. "How can I be wrong about my own favourite? It's a personal truth."

"It's a personal truth that is wrong and bad."

"Which do you prefer, then? Please show me the error of my ways."

"Okay, _Empire_."

Roman sniffs. "So dark, though."

"Yeah, which is what makes it good." Virgil e. "It's the most thematically complex. It's got the Han and Leia kiss in it, you meet Yoda, Han is at the top of his game, fucking _Lando Calrissian_ , and the best twist in cinematic history. What does _Jedi_ have? Fuckin' Ewoks."

"Ewoks are _iconic_."

"Ewoks are _stupid_."

"But _Endor_."

"But _Hoth_. There's a reason people always call the best, grittiest installment of a trilogy the Empire of the series."

"And I can appreciate that. But isn't there something to be said for a happy ending as well?"

"Spoken like a true Prince Charming."

"I'm only saying, I like the resolution of _Jedi_. It ties everything up nicely. And the overall theme your intended to take away from the film's is hope and love and... er, y'know, all that. Which is what _Jedi_ leaves you with a sense of most of all."

Roman coughs, and Virgil is turning to look at him again when the door opens and October's giant silhouette reappears.

"False alarm," he says, breathing heavily, "Some dumbass kids brought fireworks for their friend." He looks down at them, flat on their backs and blinking up in the sudden, harsh light of the hallway. "This looks cozy."

"Yep, we're really bonding," Virgil says. He reaches a hand out and lets October haul him to his feet.

Outside Kensington Palace, Virgil takes Roman's phone out of his hand and swiftly opens a blank contact page before he can protest or sic a PPO on him for violating royal property. The car is waiting to take him back to the royals' private airstrip.

"Here," Virgil says. "That's my number. If we're gonna keep this up, it's going to get annoying to keep going through handlers. Just text me. We'll figure it out."

Roman stares at him, blankly bewildered, and Virgil wonders how this guy has any friends.

"Right," Roman says finally. "Thank you."

"No booty calls," Virgil tells him, and Roman chokes on a laugh.


	3. In Which Roman And Virgil Make Amends... Sort Of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listEN IM SORRY I GOT BUSY OKAY???  
> ITS BEEN SIX MONTHSSSSSS
> 
> ...this is over 10 pages tho youre welcome-

_ FROM AMERICA, WITH LOVE: Roman And Virgil Flaunt Friendship _

_ NEW BROMANCE ALERT? Pics of FSOTUS and Prince Roman _

_ PHOTOS: Virgil’s Weekend In London _

For the first time in a week, Virgil isn’t pissed off scrolling through his Google alerts. It helps that they’ve given  _ People _ a few generic quotes about how Virgil ‘cherishes their friendship’ and how they’ve bonded over ‘shared life experiences’ as the sons of world leaders. Virgil thinks the only shared life experience they’ve had is wishing they could set that quote adrift at sea and watch it drown.

His mother doesn’t want him fake-dead anymore, though, and he’s stopped getting a thousand vitriolic tweets an hour, so he sees it as a win.

He dodges a starstruck freshman gawking at him as he speedwalks to the east side of campus, draining the dregs of his cold coffee. His first class today is an elective he’s taking out of a combination of morbid curiosity and academic fascination:  _ The Press and The Presidency. _ He’s currently running on three hours of sleep and a mixture of coffee and Redbull trying to  _ keep  _ the press from ruining the presidency, and the irony isn’t lost on him.

Today’s lecture was on presidential sex scandals in history, and he texts Logan in his lap. 

_ anxious-nerd: numbers on one of us getting into a sex scandal before second term _

His phone buzzes in his pocket within moments of putting it away. He groans at having to pull it out again.

_ space-nerd: There is a 94% probability of your dick becoming a recurring personality in the tabloids. By the way, have you seen this? _

There’s a link attached: a blog post full of images, animated GIFs of himself and Roman on  _ This Morning.  _ The fist bump. Shared smiles that pass as genuine. Conspiratorial glances. Underneath are hundreds of comments about how handsome they are and how nice they look together.  _ omfg, _ one commenter writes,  _ just make out already. _

Virgil laughs so hard he almost falls into a fountain.

<><><>

As usual, the day guard at the Dirksen Building glares at him as he glides through security. She’s certain he’s the one who vandalized the sign outside of one particular senator’s office  _ Bitch McConnell,  _ but she’ll never prove it.

Magenta tags along for some of Virgil’s Senate recon missions so nobody panics when he disappears for a few hours. Today, Magenta hangs back on a bench, catching up on his podcasts. He’s always been the most tolerant of Virgil’s quirks and antics.

Virgil has had the layout of the building memorized since his dad first got elected to the Senate. It’s where he picked up his encyclopedic knowledge of policy and procedure, where he spends more afternoons than he’s supposed to, where he swallows his anxiety and charms aides, trawling for gossip. His mom acts disapproving, but flags him down for intel after every visit.

Since Senator Emile Diaz is in California speaking at a rally for gun control today, Virgil presses the button for the fifth floor, jolting as the elevator begins its slow ascent.

His favourite senator is October Luna, an Independent from Colorado and the newest kid on the block at only thirty-nine. Virgil’s dad took him under his wing when he was merely a promising attorney, and now he’s the darling of national politics for (A) winning a special election and general in consecutive upsets for his Senate seat, and (B) Dominating  _ The Hill’s  _ 50 Most Beautiful.

Virgil spent summer 2018 in Denver on October’s campaign, so they have their own dysfunctional relationship built on tropical-flavoured Skittles from gas stations and all-nighters drafting press releases. He sometimes feels the ghost of carpal tunnel creeping back, a fond ache.

He finds Toby in his office, horn-rimmed reading glasses doing nothing to detract from his usual appearance of a movie star who tripped and fell sideways into politics. Virgil has always suspected that the soulful brown eyes and perfectly groomed stubble and dramatic cheekbones won back any votes Toby lost by being both Latino and openly gay.

The album playing low in the room is an old favourite Virgil remembers from Denver: Lemon Boy. When Toby looks up and sees Virgil in the doorway, he drops his pen on a haphazard stack of half-folded forms and documents and leans back in his chair with a tired smile.

“Fuck you doin’ here, kid?” his lips quirk up even as he watches Virgil almost warily.

Virgil pulls out a packet of Skittles from his worn hoodie pocket, and Toby’s eyes relax. He’s had that hoodie since Texas, a gift for his thirteenth birthday. It’s black with crisscrosses of gray, and he thinks of it like a second skin.

“Give it here,” Toby says, snatching the bag up as soon as Virgil drops it unceremoniously on a marked-up scrap of paper. He kicks the chair in front of his desk out for him, relaxing into his chair with the crunching of candy.

Virgil sits, shoulders still pressed together with anxiety even after all these years of knowing Toby. The man himself drops a few candies in his mouth as Virgil asks, “Whatcha workin’ on today?”

“You already know more than you’re s’psed to about everything on this desk.” Virgil does know- same healthcare reform as last year, the one stalled out since they lost the Senate in midterms. “Why are you really here?”

“Hmm.” Virgil unfolds, leaning back in his chair. “Why can’t I just come visit a dear family friend every once in a while? Why must I always have ulterior motives?” His voice is getting dramatic at this point, and he has a black polish-painted hand flung against his forehead.

“Bullshit.”

He clutches his chest. “You  _ wound  _ me.” 

“You exhaust me.”

“I enchant you.”

“I’ll call security.”

“Fair enough, I’m a public menace.”

“Instead, let’s talk about your little European vacation.” Toby says. He pins Virgil with shrewd eyes. “Can I expect a joint Christmas present from you and the prince this year?”

“Actually,” Virgil swerves, “I  _ do  _ have a question for you while I’m here.”

Toby laughs, leaning back and lacing his hands together behind his head. Virgil feels his cheeks burning for a split second. 

“It was like you were trying to set him on fire with your mind.”

“What is your point?” Virgil says through gritted teeth, his face still hot.

“I think it’s interesting,” Toby levels a smirk at him. “How fast the times are a-changin’.”

“Come on,” Virgil groans. “It’s… politics.”

“Mhm.”

Virgil shakes his head as if it’s going to disperse the topic from the room. “Besides, I came here to talk about endorsements, not my embarrassing public relations nightmares.”

“Ah,” Toby says slyly, “but I thought you were here to pay a family friend a visit?”

“Of course. That’s what I meant.”

“Virgil, don’t you have something else to do on a Friday afternoon? You’re twenty-one. Shouldn’t you be playing beer pong or getting ready for a party or something?”

“Since when have you known me to be a ‘party bro’?” He makes finger-quotes out of curled bunny fingers and raises an eyebrow. “This is much more interesting.”

“Come on. I’m just trying to give you some advice, from one old man to a much younger version of himself.”

“You’re thirty-nine.”

“My liver is ninety-three.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“Some late nights in Denver would beg to differ.”

Virgil chuckles dryly. “See, this is why we’re friends.”

“Virgil, you need other friends.,” Toby tells him. “Friends who  _ aren’t in Congress _ .” 

“I have friends! I have Pat and Logan!”

“Yes, your brother and a boy who is also a supercomputer.” Toby deadpans. “You need to take some time for yourself before you burn out, kid. You need a bigger support system.”

“Stop calling me kid,” Virgil says, bitterness bleeding into his tone.

“Ay,” Toby sighs. “Are you done? I do have some actual work to do, y’know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Virgil groans, folding himself back together and standing up. “Hey, is Maxine in town?”

“Waters?” Toby asks, angling a perfectly groomed eyebrow up. “Shit, you really do have a death wish, huh?” 

<><><>

As political legacies go, the Richards family is one of the most complex bits of history Virgil has tried to unravel.

On one of the many scribbled-on Post-Its Virgil has scattered around his room and tacked to his laptop, he’s written:  _ KENNEDYS + BUSHES + WEIRD-ASS MAFIA OLD MONEY SITH POWERS = RICHARDSES? _ It’s pretty much the thesis of what he’s dug up so far. Priden Richards, the current and supposedly only frontrunner to be his mother’s opponent in the general, has been a senator for Utah nearly twenty years, which means plenty of voting history and legislation that his mother’s team has already gone over. Virgil is more interested in the things harder to sniff out. There are so many generations of Attorney General Richards and Federal Judge Richards, they’d be able to bury anything.

His phone buzzes under a stack of half-folded files and forms on his desk. A text from Patton.

_ softandtired: dinner with me and mom? i miss you!! <3 _

He loves Pat- truly, more than anything in the world- but he’s kind of in the zone. He’ll respond when he hits a stopping point in like thirty minutes.

He glances at the video of a Richards interview pulled up in a tab, checking the man’s face for nonverbal cues. Gray hair- natural, not a piece. Shiny white teeth, like a shark’s. Gruff, heavy jaw and a voice to match. Great salesman, considering he’s blatantly lying about a bill in the clip. Virgil takes a note.

It’s a good hour and a half later before another buzz pulls him out of a deep dive into Richards’s uncle’s suspicious 1986 taxes. A text from his mother in the family group chat, a pizza emoji. He bookmarks his page and heads upstairs.

Family dinners are rare but less over-the-top than everything else that happens in the White House. His mother sends someone to pick up pizzas, and they take over the game room on the third floor with paper plates and bottles of Shiner shipped in from Texas. It’s always amusing to catch one of the burly suits speaking in code over their earpieces: “Black Bear has requested more banana peppers.”

Pat’s already on the chaise and sipping a beer. A stab of guilt immediately hits when he remembers his text.

“Shit, I’m an asshole.”

“Language! But yes, you are.”

“Technically… I am having dinner with you?” it comes out as a question.

“Just bring me my pizza.” he says with a sigh. After Secret Service misread an olive-based shouting match in 2017 and almost put the Residence on lockdown, they now each get their own pizzas.

“Sure thing, Morie.” They have nicknames based on their Secret Service codenames.  _ Probably not the wisest idea,  _ Virgil thinks as he picks up Pat’s pizza- margherita- and his own- pepperoni with roast garlic, kalamata olives, and buffalo blue cheese dip.

“Hi, Virge,” says a voice from somewhere behind the television as he settles in with his pizza.

“Hey, Thomas,” he answers. His stepdad is fiddling with the wiring, probably rewiring it to do something that’d make more sense in an  _ Iron Man  _ comic, like he does with most electronics- eccentric millionaire inventor habits die hard. He’s about to ask for a dumbed-down explanation when his mother comes blazing in.

“Why did y’all let me run for president?” she says, tapping too hard at her phone in little staccato stabs. She kicks off her heels into the corner, throwing her phone after them with a clattering like breaking plastic.

“Because we all knew better than to try and stop you,” Thomas’s voice says. He pokes his head out from behind the TV and adds, “And because the world would fall apart without you, let’s be honest here.”

His mother rolls her eyes but smiles. It’s always been like that between them, ever since they first met at a charity event when Virgil was fourteen. She was the Speaker of the House, and he was a genius with a dozen patents and money to burn on women’s health initiatives. Now, she’s the president, and he’s sold his companies to spend his time fulfilling First Gentleman duties.

Ellen releases two inches of zipper on the back of her skirt, the sign that she’s officially done for the day, and scoops up a slice.

“All right,” she says. She does a scrubbing gesture in the air in front of her face: president face off, mom face on. “Hi, babies.”

“‘Lo,” Virgil and Patton mumble in unison between mouthfuls of pizza.

Ellen sighs and looks over at Thomas. “I did that, didn’t I? No goddamn manners. Like a couple of little opossums. This is why they say women can’t have it all.”

“They are masterpieces,” Thomas says.

“One good thing, one bad thing,” she says. “Let’s do this.”

It’s her lifelong system for catching up on their days when she’s at her busiest. Virgil grew up with a mother who was a sometimes baffling combination of intensely organized and committed to lines of emotional communication, like an overly invested life coach. When he got his first girlfriend, she made a PowerPoint.

“Mmm.” Pat swallows a bite. “Good thing. Oh! Oh my god. Ronan Farrow tweeted about my essay for  _ New York  _ magazine and we totally engaged in witty Twitter repartee. Part one of my long game to force him to be my friend is underway!”

“Don’t act like this isn’t all part of your extra-long game of abusing your position to murder Woody Allen and make it look like an accident,” Virgil smirks.

“He’s just so frail, it’d only take one push-”

“Your code name is MORALITY-!”

_ “How many times _ do I have to tell y’all not to discuss your murder plots infront of a sitting president?” their mother interrupts. “ _ Plausible deniability. _ Come on.”

_ “Anyway, _ ” Patton says. “One bad thing would be, uh… well, Woody Allen’s still alive. Your turn, Virgey!”

Good thing,” Virgil says, leaning back and snagging a bite of his slice. He dips it in the sauce and pauses to think. “I filibustered one of my professors into agreeing a question on our last exam was misleading so I would get full credit for my answer, which was correct.” He takes a sip of beer and another bite. “Bad thing- Mom, I saw the new art in the hall on the second floor, and I need to know why you allowed a George W. Bush terrier painting in our home.”

“It’s a bipartisan gesture,” Ellen says. “People find them endearing.”

“I have to walk past it whenever I go to my room,” Virgil scoffs. “Its beady little eyes follow me everywhere.”

“It’s staying.”

Virgil sighs. “Fine.”

Thomas goes next- as usual, his bad thing is somehow also a good thing- and then Ellen’s up.

“Well, my UN ambassador fucked up his  _ one job  _ and said something idiotic about Israel, and now I have to call Netanyahu and personally apologize. But the good thing is it’s two in the morning in Tel Aviv, so I can put it off until tomorrow and have dinner with you two instead.”

Virgil smiles at her. He’s still in awe, sometimes, of hearing her talk about presidential pains in the ass, even three years in. They lapse into idle conversation, little barbs and inside jokes, and these nights may be rare, but they’re still nice. 

“So,” Ellen says, starting on another slice crust-first. “Did I ever tell you I used to hustle pool at my mom’s bar?”

Pat stops short, his beer halfway to his mouth. “You did what now?”

“Yep,” she tells them. Virgil exchanges an incredulous look with Pat. “Momma managed this shitty bar when I was sixteen. The Tipsy Grackle. She’d let me come in after school and do my homework at the bar., had a bouncer friend make sure none of the old drunks hit on me. I got pretty good at pool after a few months and started betting the regulars I could beat them, except I’d play dumb. Hold the stick the wrong way, pretend to forget if I was stripes or solid. I’d lose one game, then take them double or nothing and get twice the payout.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Virgil says, except he can totally picture it. She has always been scary-good at pool and even better at strategy.

“All true,” Thomas says. “How do you think she learned to get what she wants from strung-out old white men? The most important skill of an effective politician.”

Virgil’s mother accepts a kiss to the side of her square jaw from Thomas as she passes by, like a queen gliding through a crowd of admirers. She sets her half-eaten slice down on a paper towel and selects a cue stick from the rack.

“Anyway,” she says. “The point is, you’re never too young to figure out your skills and use them to get shit accomplished.”

“Okay,” Virgil says. He meets her eyes, and they swap appraising looks. 

“Including…” she says thoughtfully, “a job on a presidential election campaign, maybe.” 

Pat puts down his slice. “Mom, he’s not even out of college yet.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s the point,” Virgil says impatiently. He’s been  _ waiting _ for this offer. “No gaps in the resume.”

“It’s not only for Virgil,” their mother says. “It’s for both of you.”

Pat’s expression changes from pinched apprehension to pinched dread. Virgil makes a shooing motion in Pat’s direction. An olive flies off his pizza and hits the side of his nose. “Tell me, tell me, tell me.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Ellen says, “this time around y’all- the ‘White House Trio.’” She puts it in air quotes, as if she didn’t sign off on the name herself. “Y’all shouldn’t be only faces. Y’all are more than that. You have skills. You’re smart. You’re talented. We could use y’all not only as surrogates, but as staffers.”

“Mom…” Patton starts.

“What positions?” Virgil interjects.

She pauses, drifts back over to her slice of pizza. “Virgil, you’re the family nerd,” she says, taking a bite. “We could have you running point on policy. This means a lot of research and a lot of writing.”

“Fuck yes,” Virgil says. “Lemme romance the hell out of some focus groups. I’m in.”

“Virge-” Pat starts again, but their mom cuts him off.

“Patton, I’m thinking communications,” she goes on. “Since your degree is mass comm, I was thinking you can come handle some of the day-to-day liaising with media outlets, working on messaging, analyzing the audience-”

“Mom, I have a job,” he says.

“Oh, yeah, I mean, of course, sugar. But this could be full-time. Connections, upward mobility, real experience in the field doing some amazing work.”

“I, um…” Pat rips a piece of crust off his pizza. “Don’t remember ever saying I wanted to do anything like that. That’s, uh, kind of a big assumption to make, Mom. And you realize if I go into campaign communications now, I’m basically shutting down my chances of ever being a journalist, because, like, journalistic neutrality and everything. I can barely get anyone to let me write a column as it is.”

“Baby boy,” their mom says. She’s got that look on her face she gets when she’s saying something with a fifty-fifty chance of pissing you off. “You’re so talented, and I know you work hard, but at some point, you have to be realistic.”

“What’s  _ that _ supposed to mean?”

“I just mean… I don’t know if you’re happy,” she says, “and maybe it’s time to try something different. That’s all.”

“I’m not y’all,” Pat tells her. “This isn’t  _ my _ thing.”

“Paaaaaat,” Virgil says, tilting his head back to took at him upside down over that arm of his chair. “Just think about it? I’m doing it.” He looks back at their mom. “Are you offering a job to Logan too?”

She nods. “Lance is talking to him tomorrow about a position in analytics. If he takes it, he’ll start ASAP. You, mister, are not starting until after graduation.”

“The White House Trio, riding into battle. That’s not bad.” He looks over at Thomas, who has abandoned his project with the TV and is now happily eating a slice of cheesy bread. “They offer you a job too?”

“Nope,” he says. “As usual, my duties as First Gentleman are to work on my tablescapes and look pretty.”

“Your tablescapes are really coming along, baby,” Ellen says, giving him a sarcastic little kiss. “I really liked the burlap placemats.”

“Can you believe the decorator thought velvet looked better?”

“Bless her heart.”

“I don’t like this,” Pat says to Virgil while their mother is distracted talking about decorative pears. “Are you sure you want this job?”

A swell of anxiety fills his chest and his heartbeat quickens, thumping like a hummingbird’s in his chest even as he swallows the fear down. “It’s gon- it’s gonna be fine, Pat.” His voice is breaking and his breathing is getting quicker, but he shakes off Patton’s hand against his shoulder and continues. “If you want to keep an eye on me, you can always take the offer too.”

He shakes him off, returning to his pizza with an unreadable expression. The next day there aare three matching sticky notes on the whiteboard in Talyn’s office. CAMPAIGN JOBS: VIRGIL-LOGAN-PATTON, the board reads. The sticky notes under his and Logan’s names read YES. Under Patton’s, in what is unmistakably his own handwriting, NO.

<><><>

Virgil is taking notes in a policy lecture when he gets the first text.

_ unknown: this bloke looks like you _

There’s a picture attached, an image of a laptop screen paused on Chief Chirpa from  _ Return of The Jedi: _ tiny, commanding, adorable, pissed off.

_ unknown: this is roman btw _

He rolls his eyes, but adds the new contact to his phone:  _ hrh prince dickhead. _ He’s honestly not planning to respond, but a week later he sees a headline on the cover of  _ People _ \- PRINCE ROMAN FLIES SOUTH FOR THE WINTER- complete with a photo of Roman artistically posed on an Australian beach in a pair of sensible yet miniscule maroon swim trunks, and he can’t stop himself.

_ anxious-nerd: you have a lot of moles is that a result of the inbreeding _

_ anxious-nerd: attached file: tinytrunks.file _

Roman’s retort comes two days later by way of a screenshot of a  _ Daily Mail _ tweet that reads:

_ Is Virgil Claremont-Diaz going to be a father?  _

_ hrh prince dickhead: but we were ever so careful, dear! _

The text surprises a big enough laugh from Virgil that Talyn ejects him from their weekly debriefing with him and Pat.

So, it turns out that Roman can be funny. Virgil adds that to his mental file.

It also turns out that Roman is fond of texting when he’s trapped in moments of royal monotony, like being shuttled to and from appearances, or sitting through meandering briefings on his family’s land holdings, or, once, begrudgingly and hilariously receiving a spray tan. 

Virgil wouldn’t say he  _ likes _ Roman, but he does enjoy the quick rhythm of arguments they fall into. He knows he talks too much- his  _ lovely _ brand of anxiety makes him either dead silent or ridiculously chatty- and he lets negativity bleed into his voiced opinions too much, but he ultimately doesn’t care what Roman thinks of him, so he doesn’t bother. Instead, he’s as weird and manic as he wants to be, and Roman jabs back in sharp flashes of arrogance and startling wit.

So, when he’s bored or stressed (constantly)(He really should try out those breathing exercises that Logan keeps recommending him) or between coffee refills, he’ll check for a message popping up between notifications from vapid tabloids and texts from his groupchat with Pat and Lo. Roman with a dig at some weird quote from his latest interview. Roman with an overdramatic argument over Disney movies’ more  _ questionable _ themes. Roman with a random thought about English beer versus American beer, a picture of Roman’s dog wearing a Slytherin scarf. ( _ anxious-nerd: i dont know WHO youre kidding you gryffindor ass bitch _ , Virgil texts back, before Roman clarifies his dog, not him, is a Slytherin.)

He learns about Roman’s life through a weird osmosis of text messages and social media. It’s meticulously scheduled by Joan, with whom Virgil is slightly obsessed, especially when Roman texts him things like:

_ hrh prince dickhead: did i tell you joan has a motorbike? _

or

_ hrh prince dickhead: joan is on the phone with portugal _

It’s quickly becoming apparent that the HRH Prince Roman Fact Sheet either omitted the most interesting stuff or was outright fabricated. Roman’s favourite food isn’t mutton pie but a cheap falafel stand ten minutes from the palace, and he’s spent most of his gap year thus far working on charities around the world, half of them owned by his best friend, Remy.

Virgil learns Roman’s super into classical mythology and can rattle off the configurations of a few dozen constellations if you get him going. Virgil occasionally corrects him from the random scraps of information he’s learned from Logan over the years, and yes, he  _ absolutely _ feels immense satisfaction every single time.

Virgil hears more about the tedious details of operating a sailboat than he would ever care to know and sends back nothing but _ cool. _ eight hours later. Roman hardly ever swears, but at least he doesn’t seem to mind Virgil’s filthy fucking mouth.

Roman’s brother, Remington (Yeah, the British upper class is  _ very _ original.)- he goes by Remus, Virgil finds out- pops up often, since he lives in Kensington Palace as well. From what he gathers, the two of them are closer than either are to Phillip. They compare notes on the trials and tribulations of having older siblings.

_ anxious-nerd: did remus force you into dresses as a child too? _

_ hrh prince dickhead: has patton also got a fondness for sneaking your leftover curry out of the fridge in the dead of night like a Dickensian street urchin? _

More common are cameos by Remy, a man who cuts such an intriguing and bizarre figure that Virgil wonders how someone like him ever became best friends with someone like Roman, who can drone on about Disney conspiracy theories until you threaten to block his number. (Not that Virgil ever will- those debates are too entertaining to stop any time soon.)(You can pry that secret from Virgil’s cold, dead hands.) Remy’s always doing something insane- BASE jumping in Malaysia, eating plantains with someone who might be Jay-Z, showing up to lunch wearing a studded, hot pink Gucci jacket- or launching a new nonprofit. It’s kind of incredible.

He realizes that he’s shared Pat and Logan too, when Roman remembers how Pat’s Secret Service codename is Morality or jokes about how eerie Lo’s photographic memory is. It’s weird, considering how fiercely protective Virgil is of them, that he never even noticed until Roman’s Twitter exchange with Patton about their mutual love of the 2005  _ Pride & Prejudice _ movie goes viral.

“That’s not your emails-from-Talyn face,” Logan says, watching Patton peering over Virgil’s shoulder with an artfully arched eyebrow. His face is all smooth planes and sharp angles. 

Virgil elbows Pat away. “You keep doing that stupid smile every time you look at your phone. Who are you texting?” Pat presses himself lazily against Virgil’s side, and he sighs, tilting his screen away from Pat and watching him  _ tsk _ .

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and literally no one,” Virgil tells him. From the screen in his hand, Roman’s text reads:  _ in the worlds most boring meeting with phillip. dont let the papers print lies about me after ive garrotted myself with my tie. _

“Wait,” he says, reaching for his phone again, “are you watching videos of Justin Trudeau speaking French again?”

“That’s not a thing I do!”

“That is a thing I have caught you doing at least twice since you met him at the state dinner last year, so, yes, it is.” Logan comments from across the room. Virgil flips him off.

“Wait, oh my god, are you reading  _ fanfiction _ about yourself? And you didn’t  _ invite  _ me?” Pat throws a hand against his forehead and gives a dramatic sigh. “Who do they have you, er, fricking, now? Did you read the one I sent you with Macron? I  _ died-” _

“If you don’t stop, I’m gonna call Taylor Swift and tell her you changed your mind and want to go to her Fourth Of July party after all.”

“That is  _ not  _ a proportional response-”

<><><>

Later that night, once he’s alone at his desk, he replies: 

_ anxious-nerd: was it a meeting about which of your cousins have to marry each other to take back casterly rock _

_ hrh prince dickhead: ha ha _

_ hrh prince dickhead: it was about royal finances. i’ll be hearing phillip saying “returns on investment” in my nightmares for the rest of time. _

_ anxious-nerd: the harrowing struggle of managing the empire’s blood money. _

_ hrh prince dickhead: that was actually the crux of the meeting- i’ve tried to refuse my share of the crown’s money. dad left us with more than enough, and id rather cover my expenses with that than the spoils of, yknow, centuries of genocide. phillip thinks im being ridiculous. _

Virgil scans the message twice to make sure he’s read it correctly. 

_ anxious-nerd: i am lowkey impressed. _

He stares at the screen, at his own message, for a few seconds too long, suddenly more anxious than usual that it was a stupid thing to say. He shakes his head, puts the phone down. Locks it. Changes his mind. Unlocks it. Sees the little typing bubble on Roman’s side of the conversation. Puts the phone down. Looks away. Looks back.

_ hrh prince dickhead: one does not foster a lifelong love of star wars without knowing an “empire” isnt a good thing. _

He would really appreciate it if Roman would stop proving him wrong.

<><><>

_ anxious-nerd: i hate that tie _

_ hrh prince dickhead: what tie??? Im????? _

_ anxious-nerd: the one in the pic you just posted _

_ hrh prince dickhead: patterns are considered a “statement.” royals arent supposed to make statements with what we wear. _

_ anxious-nerd: do it for the gram _

_ hrh prince dickhead: you are a thistle in the tender and sensitive arse crack of my life. _

_ anxious-nerd: thanks! _

<><><>

_ hrh prince dickhead: I JUST RECEIVED A 5 KILO PARCEL OF ELLEN CLAREMONT CAMPAIGN BUTTONS WITH YOUR FACE ON THEM. IS THIS YOUR IDEA OF A PRANK? _

_ anxious-nerd: just trying to brighten up that wardrobe, sunshine _

_ hrh prince dickhead: your idea of brightening up involves a hot topic haul _

_ anxious-nerd: damn right it does _

_ hrh prince dickhead: i hope this gross miscarriage of campaign funds is worth it to you. my security thought it was a bomb. joan almost called in the sniffer dogs. _

_ anxious-nerd: oh def worth it. even more worth it now. tell joan i say hi and i miss that sweet sweet ass xoxo _

_ hrh prince dickhead: i will not. _

**Author's Note:**

> What do we think?


End file.
